


Les Avengers

by TheObsessedAuthor



Series: Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Crack, F/M, Humor, I don't know what this is but it was fun to write, M/M, Profanity, plot holes, prompts, so whatever, yeah that happens a few times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheObsessedAuthor/pseuds/TheObsessedAuthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt: "Reimagine Les Mis with Avengers characters. For example, Bruce Banner~Jean Valjean."</p><p>Aaaaand I ran with it. It got ridiculous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Avengers

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Jean Valjean=Bruce Banner  
> Bishop of Digne= Tony Stark  
> Mother Superior=Pepper Potts  
> Inspector Javert=Director Fury  
> Cosette=Natasha Romanov  
> Marius=Clint Barton  
> Eponine=Maria Hill  
> Enjolras=Steve Rogers  
> Grantaire=Phil Coulson  
> Thenardier=Loki

Nobody wants to give a convict a job.

Bruce supposed this was obvious. _I mean, a_ convict _, right? They're dangerous. They were in_ jail _. That's pretty hardcore._  


  
_But I'm a_ good  _guy,_  he argued with himself.  _I only stole that bread for my sister's kids. And now that I think about it, I didn't even steal them. I was, like, halfway out of the door. Not even all the way. This is bullshit._  


 ***

  
_**Complete**  bullshit,_ he thought as yet another innkeeper slammed the door in his face.  _I'm not that scary-looking. I don't even smell that bad._  


"Psst."

Bruce looked up. A slightly creepy-looking guy in priest's robes was leaning against the alley wall. Bruce blinked at him. "What?"

"What 'what'? I just said  _pssssst,_ " the man repeated. He straightened up, brushing off the sacred garment that he somehow made look sleazy and designer simultaneously. "You need a place to stay?"

  
_What the hell._ "Yeah, I guess." Bruce fumbled in his pocket. "But, uh, i'm a convicted thief. And, um, escapist. Like five times, or something. I lost count." He pulled out his yellow ticket-of-leave (which looked misleadingly like a Chocolate Factory entrance ticket but, disappointingly, wasn't) and waved it in the man's face. "See? I'm on leave. I try not to tell people that, though. Not only because it makes me sound like i'll inevitably get sent back, but because, y'know, criminals aren't the most trustworthy."

The man snatched the ticket out of his hands and held it up to the fading light, then bit off a corner of it, ignoring Bruce's protests.   
"Is this from the prison down the road? The one with the hot, easily-bribed warden and the  _really_  thin handcuffs?"

"Um. No?"

"Hmm." The man thrust the half-chewed ticket back into Bruce's hands. "Then i'm afraid I don't know the place. Anyway, you coming in? I've got Mother Superior making potstickers and  _let me tell you,_  they are fricken'  _divine._  And I know a thing or two about divinity. I'm a priest."

"I noticed." Bruce tucked the ticket back into his pocket, where it will inexplicably remain for basically the rest of the fic. "Who did you say you were?"

"I didn't, but since you asked so nicely," the man gave a flamboyant bow, "I am Father Stark."

 ***

The potstickers were, as Father Stark promised, delicious. Bruce's excitement for his first proper meal in nineteen years was somewhat dampened, however, by the intimidatingly attractive (and just plain  _intimidating)_ Mother Superior sitting opposite him. She barely glanced at him during the meal, instead sending scathing comments in Father Stark's direction (mostly about the Father's habit of adding scotch to his water glass), but Bruce was still slightly cowed.

By the end of supper, Father had consumed half a potsticker and three flasks of scotch; Bruce had polished off three-quarters of the pot; and Mother Superior (whose name a drunken Father revealed to be Victoria "or Pepper, if she doesn't-  _hic!-_  claw your eyes out for it") had downed a third of a bottle of an unnamed red wine. She was in the process of refilling her glass when Bruce excused himself to his room. 

 ***

  
_Complete bullshit._  Bruce froze in the doorway as lamps came bobbing along down the hallway. "Wait, what- guys, I swear, I wasn't-"

A man in a black policeman's uniform yanked the silverware out of Bruce's hands. "Wasn't  _what?_  Stealing this poor man's hard-earned silver? Betraying his compassion and trust? Being a complete dickwad in some holy guy's home?"

Bruce massaged his forehead. "Okay, first of all, he's a  _priest._  I don't think they work all that hard. In fact, I don't even know why he's so rich. There are a  _lot_ of plot holes here. Second, 'dickwad' isn't the most period-appropriate insult, is it? I mean, we're in, like, the nineteenth century. And even if it  _were_  appropriate-  _i'm_ the dickwad?  _You're_  the ones who burst into this dude's house in the middle of the night. What are you even doing here?"

The officer gestured at Bruce with a spoon. "Apprehending a no-good low-down dirty little thief, obviously. And a repeat offender at that." The officer's friend, who was trying to look stern and intimidating behind him, nodded.

"How the hell would you know i'm a repeat offender? My ticket of leave has remained right where I left it, in my back pocket, since I put it there nine paragraphs ago."

The officer shrugged. "Plot holes again, I guess. I just  _knew_ I had to be here, you know?"

Bruce stared at him. "Not really, no."

The man seemed to deflate a bit. "Oh. Well, anyway, you're going to need to come with us-"

"What the HELL is going on here?"

The trio turned to where a painfully hungover Father Stark was leaning heavily on the hallway door. Bruce spoke first. "Well, see, I was sleepwalking- I do that a lot, bothered the hell out of my cellmate- and I knocked your silverware off the table there, and I caught it with my nimble thief's fingers, but this guy-"

The officer cut in indignantly. " _This guy_  bravely interceded and rescued your precious silver from the filthy hands of this vermin, Father. You're welcome."

Father Stark groaned as Bruce once again stated that he wasn't all that dirty and he didn't know why people kept telling him he was. "Listen, guys, I am WAY too drunk for this. Actually, not drunk enough. Be right back." He shuffled away, leaving the convict and the policemen to stare confusedly at the door. A few clanking sounds were heard, and then he returned bearing a tray of shot glasses and a large decanter. "Honestly, I don't think  _any_ of us are drunk enough for this. Let's solve  _that_  problem."

 ***

One hour later, the officers were snoozing under the dining room table, Mother Superior was berating Father for using the Communion wine to get two men of the law completely smashed ("T'was for a good  _cause_ , Pepper,"), and Bruce was feeling slightly tipsy but mostly confused. 

As soon as Mother Victoria left the room, Bruce confronted Father. "Why would you do that for me?"

"Duuude." Father Stark lifted his left hand, tried to set it on Bruce's shoulder, missed, and settled for resting it on the table. "We're  _tight,_ man. I can at least get you out of a little snare like that. Hell, you can HAVE the freaking silverware. And the candlesticks, cuz they match, so y'might as well. And as for the wine, s'not like we don't have alcohol just  _sitting_ , like,  _everywhere._ " The Father rubbed at his eyes. "I tell you what, you wanna get  _hosed_ , you go to a monastery or som'thin'. They have got wine in every glass container  _there_. M'not kiddin'." With that, the Father laid his head down on the table and fell asleep.

Bruce, unwilling to face Mother S-  _Victoria_ , and seeing that the sun was coming up anyway, picked up his new silver and departed.

 ***

~a few years later~

 ***

  
_That's bulllshit._  Bruce, now the mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer, watched in irritation as a sleazy man in a rumpled suit ran his hands over the malnourished shoulders of a young prostitute who was  _clearly_ rebuffing his attention."Hey! You!"

The man whipped his head around, jerking his hands away from the woman's back. "Who, me?"

"Dude, you're the only other one here. Unless you think I'm talking to-" he paused. "What's your name?"

The woman glared at him. "Fantine."

"Right, Fantine. Unless you think I- wait, do I know you?"

Fantine narrowed her eyes at him. "Not personally. I used to work in that god-awful hellhole you call a factory."

"Hey! That hellhole keeps our economy alive."

"Maybe, but it's killing the workers. Haven't you ever been to a leadership seminar? You need to organize a company picnic or something. Maybe a few trust-building exercises."

Bruce frowned thoughtfully. "That's actually a pretty good idea. Why did I fire you, again?"

The handsy not-customer broke in. "So, are we gonna do this, or-"

"Piss off," the mayor and the prostitute replied simultaneously. The sleazebag scurried away, clutching his cheap top hat that was in style, like, ten months ago.

Bruce shook his head at the retreating figure. "So, uh, you were fired. Um. How're you doing?"

Fantine's mouth actually dropped open. "Are you kidding me? I'm a lady of the night, man! I'M NOT DOING THAT GREAT!"

"That  _well,_ " Bruce corrected. "And 'lady of the night' at least sounds cool. Like a female Batman."

"We don't know who Batman is, dickwad. It's the eighteen-hundreds." Fantine crossed her arms over her chest angrily.

"Oh, yeah." Bruce paused. "Anyway. I  _do_  feel bad about the whole forced-to-become-a-prostitute thing. Can I help, somehow?"

Fantine tilted her head, considering. "Well, you're filthy rich, yeah?"

"I suppose."

She sighed. "Alright. So, I've got this kid..."

"MISS!"

Bruce froze. That voice...

Fantine swore obscenely. "Damn  _cops!"_  


Bruce swung around, instinctively clutching at his wrists where the scars from his manacles still circled the skin. He was greeted by the sight of the quickly-advancing police chief, the aptly named Chief Fury.

"Fury," Bruce greeted him formally.  _Stay calm, you're a good guy now, he doesn't know you..._  


"Sir," Fury replied stiffly. "I must ask why you are consorting with this criminal."

Bruce almost laughed, albeit hysterically. "I... I was merely assisting her on her way to the... the, erm..."

Fantine was suddenly wracked with full-body coughs, her thin frame shaking frighteningly. "The hospital," she finished weakly, glaring at Bruce. "I think... I think i'm dy-" she broke off, coughing.

Chief Fury looked unconvinced. "Ma'am, i'm sorry that your life may be ending soon, but I must uphold the law, and the law says that you must be put under arrest immediately for prostitution."

Bruce's eyes widened. "Are you kidding me? Look at her! Poor thing's nearly wasted away. And I think she's caught something nasty. She should definitely be taken to a hospital. In fact, I know of one near here, I'll just escort her there myself..." He grabbed a bony wrist and dragged Fantine away from the suspicious police chief. When they were safely out of hearing range, he whispered, "Nice acting back there."

"Not acting, Skippy," Fantine muttered back. "I think i'm tasting blood."

 ***

  
_Not more of_ this  _bullshit._  Bruce backed up against the table as police chief Fury stalked towards him. "Listen, I know we've had our differences, but hear me out- I've been thinking about implementing a new company policy with picnics and trust exercises, and I think it would really improve the general atmosphere-"

Chief Fury interrupted him rather rudely. "I  _knew_  it was you! Ever since that incident with the overturned cart..."

Bruce paused. "Really? The  _cart_  thing tipped you off? That's kind of pathetic, man. I mean, I even accidentally used my real name  _in front of you_  three or four times. That didn't clue you in?"

Chief Fury scowled. "Well, you did turn  _green_  when you lifted it _,_ " he growled. " _That_ was a bit more obvious than a mayor with a stutter."

"Whatever, man," muttered Bruce, who was very defensive about his slight speech impediment. ( _It was the stress of the situation_ , he told himself.) "Anyway, I really should be going- there's a child I have to rescue from the evil clutches of two cruel slave drivers. Can we continue this later?"

Fury grimaced. "Do we have to? It would be a lot easier for everyone if I just arrested you now. If I have to keep chasing you, i'll be painted as the bad guy, and it will take something really ridiculous to get everyone to believe I just had some morality issues."

" _Extremely_ ridiculous," agreed Bruce. "Like, a suicide or something. After leaving a dramatic yet well-meaning note."

"Exactly. I'm glad you understand why i'd prefer to stay away from  _that_  path. So, if you could just-"  
However, in another unexplained plothole, Bruce had already mysteriously vanished into the night. Chief Fury groaned. "God  _dammit."_  


 ***

The kid looked nothing like her mother.

Seriously, they looked  _nothing_ alike. Fantine had had brown hair, right? Bruce scrubbed at his eyes- he hadn't slept in forty hours, and his memory was a little fuzzy. "You're... ah... Cosette?"

The kid- tiny, with longish red hair and suspicious, darting eyes- squinted at him. "Who wants to know?"

  
_Oh, Lord help me. She's one of_ those _children._ "My name is... uh, not important. Listen, I knew your mother. She sent me to take you away from here."

Cosette raised a delicate eyebrow. "Take me where?"

Bruce hadn't really thought that far ahead. "Damn, I don't even know. Huh. I probably should've asked."

"Probably." The kid circled him, then poked him in the stomach, ignoring his growls. "What do you do for a living? How well-off are you, that you can support a child at the drop of a hat?"

"Well, I was-  _oof!_ Quit that- I was the mayor of an industrial town a while ago, and I got filthy rich off a factory I had built. So, i'm pretty well -  _stop it!-_  well off, you could say."

"I don't say," she sniffed, tugging at his coat. "This design is from, like, six months ago. And your shoes aren't real leather."

Bruce blinked. "This is a nice coat! And yes they are, I asked the salesman myself. Real leather, he promised."

Cosette eyed him. "Yeah, you're a sap. Are you sure you can handle a child? I am  _very_  high-maintenance. And a pathological liar."

Bruce was regretting his decision to help Fantine. "Um-"

"NATASHA!"

Cosette's eyes widened. "Oh,  _shit_."

Bruce, stunned by both the screechy voice shouting the name that  _clearly wasn't_ Cosette, and the child's obvious reaction to the name-  _this kid has got a sailor's mouth-_  stood perfectly still as Not-Cosette snatched up her water bucket and sprinted away through the forest.

A second later he followed her.

 ***

"You've got money?" The dark-haired man, who seemed to  _loom_  no matter how he stood, thrust his hand out at Bruce. A tiny girl with huge brown eyes and short-cropped hair clung to his leg, her thumb in her mouth. Another girl was barely visible from where he was standing, partially hidden by the door of what he hoped was a bathroom. Her hair was deep brown and looked like it had been chopped off with an axe. As soon as she noticed Bruce's gaze on her, she disappeared into the room behind her.

"I have money, yes," Bruce continued, using the same patient voice he'd been using for the last half hour. "I know this may seem odd, but the girl's mother was  _very_  insistent that-"

"Yeah, yeah." The man shoved away the toddler at his knee and took a step forward. "Money, now."

Bruce blinked, then handed him the money, which he immediately pocketed. "Okay, you can go," he muttered to Not-Cosette.

Bruce waved his hand questioningly. "Ah, just a quick- um, question- what is her name, exactly?"

The man blinked. "Cosette, of course. Damned  _weird_  name for a child. I would've gone for something more traditional, myself. Like Hel, or Fenrir." He shuffled through what looked suspiciously like unpaid bills. "Or Sleipnir. Now,  _that's_ a good strong name for a child. But  _Cosette!_ That's just asking for trouble. Almost as bad as  _Sylvia_. Or  _Euphrasie_. Ridiculous names, all of them." The man snorted and bustled into the kitchen, leaving Possibly-But-Maybe-Not-Cosette and the unnamed toddler alone with him. The toddler shot him a look that nearly dripped with condescension, then crawled away.

Bruce shifted awkwardly, glancing at the child he'd just taken responsibility for. "Natasha?"

Cosette-But-Becoming-Less-And-Less-Cosette-With-Every-Second whipped her head around. "What?"

"A-HA!" Bruce clapped his hands in a very immature way. "So your name  _isn't_ Cosette!"

"Oh, for God's sake," muttered Almost-Certainly-Natasha. "Just because I react to it, doesn't make it mine. STEPHEN!"

Bruce jumped at the sudden scream. "What?"

Okay-Maybe-She-Is-Cosette smirked. "See? People respond to any old name. And maybe I just like the name Natasha. It sounds Russian."

Bruce frowned. "What's so great about Russians?"

For-Simplicity's-Sake-Let's-Call-Her-Natasha-From-Now-On shrugged, pulling her ragged shawl around her thin shoulders. "Everyone knows Russians are badass."

 ***

"Why do we have to do this every week? I feel like we're just  _asking_ for someone to mug us." Natasha peeled off another note and let it be snatched away by a scruffy-looking homeless person. 

"We have to help the less fortunate," Bruce explained, handing several notes to an elderly lady who mumbled a French blessing before shuffling away. "It's the right thing to do."

"Whatever," grumbled Natasha. "These people freak me out. Especially  _that_ kid _._ " She nodded her head at the young man who'd been trailing behind them for the last twenty yards.

Bruce squinted at him conspicuously. "Is he homeless? He doesn't look homeless. I didn't know they allowed non-homeless people in this park."

" _We're_ not homeless," Natasha reminded him. "Not right now, anyway."

Bruce stamped his feet distractedly. "Er, well, we're not technically supposed to be here, either. But we're doing something productive, at least. What's he doing? Should we give him money?"

"I don't think so." Natasha narrowed her eyes as the boy ducked behind a tree. "I'll go interrogate him."

Bruce called out after her as she set off towards the boy. "Tasha, don't... don't..." His voice died as she pointedly ignored him. "Don't injure anyone again," Bruce muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He sighed, ignoring the grimy hands that continued to rifle through his pockets.  _Raising children is_ hard _._  


Natasha waited until the boy tried to peek out from behind the tree, then grabbed the collar of his jacket and forced him up against the hard wood. "Who are you?"

"I'm-" the boy swallowed nervously "I'm Marius. But, uh, my friends call me Clint."

"I'm sure they do, Marius," Natasha said in a condescending monotone. "Why are you following my father and I?"

"I'm not, I swear," Marius-But-Sometimes-Clint stuttered. "I am definitely not a spy sent by your fake father's old arch-nemesis to report on his whereabouts and actions."

Natasha tilted her head skeptically. "Okay," she finally accepted, letting go of his collar enough that his feet touched the ground. "So what  _are_  you doing?"

"Uhm." Marius-But-Sometimes-Clint blushed, toeing the ground. "Well, you're really pretty, and I was never raised with any sort of explanation as to how you're supposed to act in social situations, so I figure staring at you until you talked to me was a safe guess." He waved a hand between them. "And it's worked so far, hasn't it?"

Natasha glared. "Who were you raised by, that didn't bother to teach you not to stalk people?"

"My grandfather. He... doesn't get out much." Marius-But-Sometimes-Clint shifted awkwardly. "And I actually haven't seen him in a while. I was recruited a few years ago by... a...company."

"A company?" Natasha squinted at him. "What company?"

"They don't like me talking about them. But it pays really well, and I'm really good at it." Clint-  _Marius_ - crossed his arms defensively. "Like,  _really_  good. I'm the youngest agent in the last seventy years."

"What kind of company calls their employees 'agents?'" Natasha narrowed her eyes. "This sounds shady. And I bet they don't even have a cool acronym."

"They do too! And you're asking an awful lot of questions." Clint-  _no, Marius- oh, **whatever** -_ scowled and shoved Natasha away. "I should be going. Can I creepily drop by your house later and watch you walk around the garden you may or may not have?"

Natasha shrugged. "You don't know where I live."

"I can get an ag- a  _friend_  to help me. But it's not stalking because we're in love now, right?"

"Love is for children," Natasha gritted out. "And I doubt your friend will be able to track me down."

"You'd be surprised, she's very good at what she does." Clint smirked. "And she'd love to help me."

 ***

"What do you mean? You do this sort of stuff all the time, Maria. And you  _love_ helping me.," Clint whined.

"I  _told_  you," Maria hissed, "not to call me that here. My family could hear." She snuck over to the door of her bedroom and peered out, then closed it silently. " _Here_ , i'm Eponine. So shut it."

Clint hit his head against the wall. Bits of moldering plaster rained down from the ceiling and stuck in his hair. "Listen, she's not as bad as you think. She could be one of us, even." Clint ruffled his hair. "I just need her address, I swear. That's it, then you can leave."

Maria-Who-is-Mostly-Eponine raised one eyebrow. "This is my house."

Clint glanced around. "True. Listen, just one favor. That's it, that's all, then i'll leave you alone forever."

"NO!" Maria-Who-Is-Mostly-Eponine grabbed his arm. He gawked at her. She backpedaled. "I-I mean... I can find her house. Easy, that's easy, I can do that. What did you say her name was?"

"Well, her real name is Euphrasie. Her nicknames include Natasha, Tasha and Cosette." Clint pulled a filing folder out of a random plot hole and flipped it open. "Her real father was a one Felix Tholomyes, who died a few years ago in a cart accident. Her mother, real name unknown, died before then. Chief Fury actually managed to make contact with her before her death, but no information was recovered. Fantine appeared to be working with the convict Jean Valjean, when he was given verbal permission to take custody of her daughter, the aforementioned Euphrasie." Clint frowned. "She must have a really messed up home life."

Eponine-Who-Will-Only-Be-Referred-To-As-Maria-Later-Because-I-Can-That's-Why sniffed. "It doesn't matter. Her father was sighted near one of the back streets a few hours ago, by one of our operatives. I can probably find her from there."

 ***

"Why is she GONE?" Clint pounded his fists into the brick wall. "You said she was here just a few  _hours_  ago! Where could they have gone that quickly?"

Maria-Who-Is-Almost-Always-Maria-Now shrugged, very clearly not giving a shit. "Her dad- fake dad- might have said something about moving to London. I'm not sure. Besides, she's gone now, and you seem to be  _really_  emotionally invested in this particular job." She tilted her head at Clint. "Maybe I should have Fury pull you off this assignment."

Clint scowled ferociously. "I get it. I'll just... I'll... I don't know."

Maria pursed her lips like she'd just thought of something, which was brilliant acting on her part since she'd actually been having the same thought for the past twenty minutes. However, it was not a very appropriate thought, nor a very nice one, so that wasn't the one she said aloud. "There's another assignment you could take on, to get your mind off this... Tasha."

Clint raised his head. "What assignment? Where is it?"

Maria smiled. "You know those students you've been hanging out with?"

 ***

"Clint!" Enjolras clapped a hand to Clint's shoulder. "Glad you could make it. We're actually just about to start the shooting, so you're just in time."

"Glad I could make it, Cap," Clint muttered, brushing off his hand and refusing Courfeyrac's offer of a weapon. "I brought my own pistols, so I'm good." He frowned. "I could go for some more ammunition, though."

Courfeyrac smiled. "Not to worry! We sent our best ammunition gatherer out hours ago! He shall be back soon!" 

Clint raised an eyebrow at the oddly non-canonically muscled student with the gorgeous blonde hair. "Shouldn't it take less than an hour to collect a few bullets?"

"Oh." Courfeyrac frowned. "Probably."

Cap groaned. "Listen, we didn't want to tell him, he's really sensitive about this stuff...the guy's kind of, um, dead. We sent someone else out to collect bullets."

Clint ignored Courfeyrac's loud sobs. "Who?"

"Some guy calling himself Mark." Cap frowned. "He looked pretty feminine for a guy, though. Like, wow. Hot." He blinked. "Wait, did I say that out loud?"

"Mark?" Clint exhaled. "Oh, c'mon, that wasn't even  _clever._ "

The cafe door creaked open, and Cap groaned behind him. "Phil..."

Grantaire-Played-By-Coulson sat heavily in one of the only chairs left in the Musain (all the other pieces of furniture had been mashed into a giant barricade). "Cap. What an absolute PLEASURE to see you. How," he nearly fell off his barstool, "how's the revolution going?"

Cap scowled. "It would be going better if you would stay sober and make an  _attempt_  to help out around here."

Phil sighed and straightened his cravat. "I would love to help out more, but I've got an intense hero-worship thing going on, and I can't really breathe let alone pay attention to the revolution when you're in the same room as I am. That, and I've developed a drinking problem to cope with my severe depression, self esteem issues, and unrequited love for you."  
Cap blinked. "Wait, what?"  
Phil snorted. "Nothing. Hey, could you sign my chest? I have a Sharpie you can-"  
"Maybe later," Cap interrupted. He shuffled a few important-looking maps and papers and things, then ran a hair through his hair. (Phil watched this with more interest than he'd shown in the entire revolution thus far.) "I need someone to report on the soldier's positions. I spoke to the police force earlier, and they promised to be in place by two thirty, but it's nearly  _three_ now _,_  and I haven't seen even the  _tip_  of a bayonet."

A deep voice sounded from somewhere behind the group. "I can go look."

Cap whirled around dramatically. "Who said that?"

"I am literally standing right in front of you." An older man with an ill-fitting uniform waved a hand. "I used to work with these men, I know how they think. I can get in and get out without being noticed."

Cap squinted. "How?"

"I got in here, didn't I?" The man snorted. "Not that  _that_  was much of a feat. This is really unorganized for an organization."

Cap scowled. "Fine, whatever. Just leave. We don't need any more negativity around here- we get enough of that from Phil." Phil, who had by now retreated to a corner with his ever-present flask, raised his hand in a vague gesture of acknowledgement.

"I'll report back soon," the man muttered, already sliding away. He opened the door of the cafe and rammed straight into a small, weirdly feminine boy. 

"Watch where you're going, you dickwa- Sir?" The boy staggered a few paces away, holding his stomach. "Sir, i'm so sorry, I didn't-"

"Shut  _up_ ," the man hissed, before straightening his cap and rushing out the door.

Cap narrowed his eyes suspiciously, before shrugging. "Well, that was odd."

Phil laughed sardonically in his corner. "You're lucky you're hot, Enj." He took a long pull from the flask. "So hot."

Cap chose to ignore him. "Mark? Where are the bullets?"

"Mark? Maria!" Clint ran over. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Collecting ammunition... or I was." She staggered again. "Until I got  _shot_  like a moron," she continued, pulling away her hands to reveal a dark red stain seeping through her jacket.

Clint inhaled sharply. "Maria! Why would you get yourself shot? That's, like, the  _first_  thing you learn not to do!" He grabbed her shoulder as she stumbled, maneuvering her into a chair.

She smirked. "You know how they say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes?"

"Are you seriously talking about this  _now_?" Clint readjusted her increasingly limp form on the chair. "I think we should be talking about other things. Like, where the nearest hospital is, or what your insurance covers. Useful things like that."

"I mean it, though. And I just keep thinking... my life... _sucked."_  


Clint moaned. "Don't talk like that. It can  _keep_ sucking, you just need to hold on for a few more hours."

Maria blinked. "You're not really encouraging me, here." She sighed. "You are  _really_  stupid, you know?" With that, she grabbed the back of his head and pulled him down into a brief, passionate kiss (as passionate as almost-dead people can be, anyway. You'd be surprised, actually).

Clint pulled away after what he assumed was an appropriate amount of time. Maria smiled. "You're a dumbass," she commented, before dying in his arms like the cliche it was.

Cap, who had respectfully removed his hat, placed it back onto his head. "So, wait. Was he a girl, or are you..." He trailed off as Clint glared at him. "Never mind, then. Jeez. Um, did he- did  _she_  say 'sir' to the old guy?"

Clint frowned. "Of course. That was Police Chief Fury. Don't you guys have any facial recognition abilities whatsoever? He's basically everywhere." He tilted his head. "It's actually pretty creepy. Anyways, Maria and I work for him." He closed his eyes. " _I_  work for him." 

Cap squinted at him. "So... he's  _not_  part of the revolution?"

Phil groaned loudly from his corner. "You think of that all by yourself?"

"I wonder if we should do something about that," Cap mused, before brushing it aside. "In any case, we should definitely be-"

"Is there a 'Marius' here?" Another man burst into the cafe, glancing around frantically.

Cap threw his hands into the air. "Who is watching the door? Where are all these people coming from?"

Clint raised a hand tentatively. "I'm- wait, are you Valjean?"

The man blinked. "Of course not. Are you Marius?"

"Um." Clint squinted at him. "I swear you're Valjean. I mean, I've been stalking you for years. Well, not stalking, I was paid to do it. I was stalking your daughter, though. Where is she?"

Apparently-Valjean-Has-A-Twin looked relieved. "Thank god, you  _are_  Marius. Tasha said there was a boy stalking her, and she heard you were going to get yourself killed in some silly revolution, so she sent me to collect you."

Clint wasn't sure whether he should be flattered or indignant. " _Collect_  me?"

"Yes." Yeah-Okay-He's-Definitely-Valjean grabbed Clint's arm and began to steer him out of the cafe at the same time Police Chief Fury reentered.

"Okay, they're regrouping by the- BRUCE!"

Valjean stopped. " _Shit,_ " he muttered.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac immediately grabbed an arm each. "Enj?" Combeferre asked. "What should we do with him?"

Fury shook them off. "I am an officer of the Law," he declared, in a voice that said he meant Law with a capital 'L,' and that that was definitely not a typo that the author was too lazy to fix.

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes. "I am not someone who encourages violence," he stated, "but I think we should kill him."

Cap nodded slowly. "I guess so. Alright, Phil, could you kill the traitor for us? It's not like you're doing anything  _important_  right now."

Phil wrinkled his nose and took a long drink from his flask. "I'm wallowing in apathy and overwhelming concern, and the two emotions are clashing oddly. I think it's giving me a stomach ache."

"That's the absinthe," Cap muttered darkly, before casting his eyes about the room. "Okay, who else wants too do it?"

"I can," Valjean offered. "I've even got my own gun, and there's an alley out back here-"

"Perfect," Cap interrupted him. "We'll just start with the shooting and flag-waving, you can take him out back and get rid of him. Then you could fight with us, maybe?" He looked hopeful at the prospect.

"Er... maybe," Valjean hedged, his tone suggesting he wasn't going to do anything of the sort. "I'll just..." he snatched Clint's arm again and, this time, grabbed Fury's as well, dragging him out of the room and slamming the door behind them.

Cap squinted at the door. "That was weird," he remarked.

 ***

"Okay, get the hell away from here," Valjean announced as soon as they were out into the street. 

Fury screwed up his mouth in confusion. "Why? I've been harassing you and your daughter for years. I've inconvenienced you at every available opportunity. I forced you out of a town you'd basically formed, and had a good life in."

Valjean sniffed. "Yeah, I guess so. Still, it's better for me to confuse you to the point of suicide because of your own immovable morals and self-doubt, than it would be for me to shoot you. That would be wrong."

Fury considered him. "Fuck you, Bruce," he said finally, before turning on his heel and strolling away.

Clint blinked. "Bruce?"

"About that," Bruce said, before knocking him out with a quick uppercut, which seemed completely unnecessary except for that maybe it made him more pliant and portable.

 ***

~back at the barricade~

 ***

"Are you the leader of this revolution?" The soldier, a slightly overweight man with greasy hair and a bayonet that he was jabbing into Cap's stomach, sneered. " _Were,_  I should say."

"I  _am_ ," Cap spat, glaring at the shorter man. "And the spirit of justice cannot be vanquished by steel."

"Of course not," the man chortled (because, honestly, there's no uglier word for laughter than 'chortled'). "But the embodiment of justice can be vanquished by pretty much anything, can't it?" He jabbed him again, apparently to prove a point. 

One of the soldiers behind the obnoxious ringleader tapped him on the shoulder. "He's the last one. We should take care of this and get going." He flipped open his mysteriously present pocketwatch. "C'mon, dude, my niece's dance recital is in, like, twenty minutes."

"Fine, fine," the man snorted. He raised his bayonet and held it in front of Cap's chest.

"WAIT!" Phil, who'd fallen into an alcohol-induced snooze in his designated drinking corner, stumbled to his feet and staggered over to the Captain. "Enjolras..."

"Phil?" Cap frowned at his still-inebriated frenemy. "What are you doing here? You could've escaped out the back several times during the course of our rebellion."

"I was asleep most of the time," he admitted. "But I've trained myself to respond to your name and words I've associated it with so I woke up as soon as I heard 'leader.'" He shuffled his feet. "And you never signed my chest."

Cap blinked incredulously. "Wait, seriously? You're essentially getting yourself killed because I never  _wrote_  on you?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Phil groaned, before tackle-kissing him through the window the soldiers had stupidly backed them up against.

The soldiers, confused both by the sudden (successful) exit and the blatant show of affection, decided that they'd just report the quashing of the uprising as successful and attend soldier #2's niece's dance recital.

 ***

~okay, back to the mansion or wherever this shit is happening~

 ***

"Wait, dude, why are you dying?" Clint prodded Bruce's shoulder tentatively. "You're not even super old, or anything. Are you sick?"

"No," Bruce coughed. "It's just that the plot of this story- however weak it may have been- no longer needs me, so i'm being killed off in the most humane way possible." He closed his eyes serenely. "In an unexplained yet peaceful, manner."

Clint leaned over to a slightly distraught Natasha. "Was that a _really elaborate_  analogy, or is he breaking a fourth wall that may or may not exist?"

"I'm not sure," Tasha muttered back. "Dad? What's going on?"

"Well," Bruce murmured, "you two are probably going to get married sometime in the future, and i'm going to die. Probably before you get married." He coughed again. "Sorry about that."

"Why do we have to get married?" Tasha huffed. "All I known about this guy is that he followed me for like the last ten years, and he's apparently in love with me or something. That's not the best base for a relationship."

"I really don't have an opinion on the matter," Bruce shrugged. "Plus, i'm not actually your father, I just adopted you from your mother, who was a prostitute and who might've died under mysterious circumstances. I can't remember if I stuck around to check." His eyebrows knitted in mild concern. "I feel like I should send her a letter or something." He glanced over at Clint. "I think you should've been surprised by this, but your occupation as a secret agent kind of ruined that."

"I  _knew_  it," Natasha squealed, excitedly punching him in the arm. "I  _knew_  you were hiding something!"

Clint rubbed his arm in what he hoped was a subtle manner. "I  _told_  you I was an agent, like, twelve times. You never  _listen_  to me, that's the problem."

"You should work through that," Bruce interjected. "If you're going to get married, I mean. Communication is key."

"Noted," Clint acknowledged. "Thanks for the advice. You should probably die now, so that the story can be over. The author has been up too late already, and she's going to end this in a really unsatisfying way if it doesn't get done."

Natasha scowled. "Fourth wall," she reminded him, somewhat nervously. (Breaking the fourth wall can have devastating side effects. Clint was really playing with fire, here.)

Clint shrugged. "She can't kill me off now, we're almost done with the story. She needs me to be here so I can marry you and add an element of romance to this piece of crap fiction. What else can she do?" He laughed. "In fact, the worst thing she could do would be to end the story in middle of


End file.
